#2: Short Stories

Write your own short story of any topic and any length you choose (as long as it's HP appropriate obviously) and enter our March writing contest. Bonus points for a March themed story (Spring, St Patrick's Day, etc) - this will be factored into the prize.

Entry fee is $2mil HPD to be donated to the club and message me when you've done so.

Your fellow HPers will vote during the last week of March.

Winner announced on March 30th.

Comment your completed short story to this thread for all to see.

~ bumping ~

🦄Saying Goodbye To My Unicorn🦄

     Unicorns are real. I’ve known one since I was 4 years old.

As a little girl you never truly understand the value of “that horse” and what it has taught you. And you never think about how those endless hours spent in the barn brushing, cleaning, braiding, and talking to them has molded you into the confident woman you are today. Every little girl dreams of owning a unicorn. Sunny was my unicorn. There will never be a time that’s right to have to say goodbye. I know I definitely wasn’t ready for it to be her time to go. My heart is broken, but then again my heart is full. I love you Sunny. And so much of my life is the way it is because of you.

     You paved the way for me and many others. I think back on the countless children you packed around like eggs. How many “first rides” have you given? From the kiddos at the rodeo’s handicap kid day camp to all my littles that came for lessons. How many first ribbons and first buckles were won... how many memories they will all never forget. 

     Being my first horse I’m sure wasn’t easy. There were a lot of trials and errors that’s for sure. I’m sorry for some of the dumb things I did, not knowing any better. There are so many things you tolerated from me as I learned and grew. You always had that look when I did something stupid. As if to say “it’s ok, but did you learn something?” You taught...

     You taught me responsibility. Horses are a lot of work to take care of. And boy, you sure could use some extra care... a lot. Colic prone accident prone crazy mare! You taught me that determination and hard work pays off. I learned that things don’t come easy. Those ribbons and buckles and medals we won together were because of the hours you made me work for it. And you always gave me your all. You gave...

   You gave me confidence. Whenever I rode you I felt invincible and free. As we grew together I gained more and more confidence. You gave me a foundation as a human being and life lessons that can’t be taught. You loved...

     You loved me no matter what. And I loved you the same. They say every horse deserves the love of a little girl. There are times I think that saying should be reversed. Every little girl deserves a chance to meet their unicorn. I was so lucky to have mine.

Today I led my unicorn to the pasture for the last time. Today my unicorn earned her wings. And although I am shattered, I know every unicorn must learn to fly. I'll see you again some day, my Sunny.

Fly…🦄

I lost her the first week of April a few years ago and wrote this tribute to her. This time of year (spring) the wildflowers grow where we buried her on our farm. When I saw your said write a short story and include something about spring, this is the first thing that popped into my mind. Hope that it qualifies. 

What is the prize?

@Delphic, haven't fully decided yet (wondering how much interest it gets)

@Outlaw, not going to lie - this made me cry (partly because it reminded me of my girl) - Not what I had in mind when I created a "Short Story Contest" but I love it! It's so sweet and well-written! Nice tribute to a beautiful horse!

Tempest's Edge: Then to Now

They called her mongrel. Half-breed. Not good enough for the show ring, too common for the breeding barn. She didn't understand why her mixed blood made her less, only that it did.

The small band had been traveling for days, following the coast where the cliffs met the restless sea. Five horses, cast out from different places for the same reason—none of them were pure enough. A patchwork herd of Irish Draught crossed with mountain pony, hot-blooded Arabian mixed with sturdy Connemara, each one deemed unworthy by those who valued papers over heart.

March wind cut across the rocky shore, carrying salt spray and the promise of storms. The lead mare—she had no fancy name, just "the bay"—lifted her head as the cliff edge came into view.

The small herd of mongrels arrived at a grassy ledge tucked between cliff and sea, just as March rain began to spit from darkening skies. Five horses, disregarded and nameless, standing at the edge of the world with nowhere left to go.

The bay surveyed their refuge—if it could be called that. A narrow shelf of wind-bent grass clinging to rock, barely wide enough for them all. Below, waves crashed against black stone. Above, the cliff rose steep and unforgiving. Behind them, miles of cold travel and closed gates.

The grey mare—small, sturdy, Connemara blood showing in her thick coat—pawed at the thin soil. The pinto stallion who was more like a gelding, Irish Draught shoulders too heavy for his Arabian legs, stood with his rump to the wind. The dun, barely more than a yearling, pressed close to the bay's flank for warmth.

This was not a place for horses. Any sensible creature would turn back.

But they had nowhere else to turn.

The storm arrived on the evening of March seventeenth, coiling down from the north like something ancient and serpentine. Wind hissed through the cliff rocks. The sea struck with viper-quick fury.

The bay braced herself, instinct screaming to run. But there was nowhere to run to. Behind them: rejection. Before them: the edge. This narrow shelf was all they had.

The yearling dun trembled. The grey mare flattened her ears against the shriek of wind. The pinto gelding turned his heavy shoulder into the gale.

And then—movement. A snake, dislodged from the warming rocks by the storm's violence, dropped among them.

The dun squealed and shied. The grey danced sideways. Even the pinto startled.

But the fifth horse—a stocky red roan mare, draft and mountain pony bred together—didn't move. She stood solid as the stone beneath her hooves, watching the serpent slither away into a crevice, driven out by the very storm that had revealed it.

The bay understood then. The snake carried their old fear with it—the terror of not being good enough, of having nowhere to belong. It disappeared into the dark, and they remained.

They didn't run. They stayed.

The storm raged through the night. Rain turned the narrow ledge to mud, but the grey mare's Connemara-bred hooves found purchase where a finer-boned horse would have slipped. She picked her way along the cliff face, testing each step, leading the yearling to higher ground.

The pinto stallion became their windbreak. His mismatched build—too heavy in the shoulder, too long in the leg—made him ungainly in a show ring. But here, planted broad and solid, his draft horse bulk shielded the smaller dun from the worst of the gale.

The bay's hot-blood intelligence kept them together. She read the storm's rhythm, knew when to press them into the shelter of an overhang, when to move them back as waves clawed higher. Her Arabian ancestors had crossed deserts; she could navigate this.

And the red roan—steady, unshakeable—stood sentinel at the edge. When rocks tumbled loose from above, she didn't flinch. When lightning split the sky, she remained. Mountain pony stubbornness bred with draft horse endurance. Immovable.

The yearling dun, still growing into his mixed heritage, tucked himself among them and learned. This was survival. This was strength.

They worked without commands, without humans. They simply knew.

The storm broke at dawn. Spring sun pierced the clouds, turning the rain-dark sea to silver. Steam rose from the horses' backs as they stood, exhausted but alive, on their muddy shelf of cliff.

The bay looked at her small herd. The grey mare, coat plastered with salt spray but eyes bright. The pinto stallion, sides heaving but stance still solid. The red roan, utterly unmoved, already grazing on the storm-battered grass. The yearling dun, wide-eyed and trembling but standing on his own four feet.

Not one of them was elegant. Not one was pure. Not one belonged anywhere else.

But here—here they fit.

This, then, would be their home, the bay decided. Here among the cliffs and sea, where no sensible creature would choose to stay. Here, at the edge of the world, the mongrels of the horse world would remain and flourish.

The others seemed to understand without her saying. The grey mare nickered soft agreement. The pinto stallion shook out his sodden mane. The red roan, ever steady, simply continued grazing. Even the yearling dun lifted his head a fraction higher.

They had been cast out for what they were. Here, what they were was exactly enough.

Spring came to the edge, and then another, and another. The herd grew. The grey mare bore dappled foals who navigated rocks with sure feet. The bay's offspring carried her quick intelligence. The red roan's colts stood immovable as stone. The pinto's daughters were strong. And the dun, grown into a stallion, sired the next generation of survivors.

Other misfits found them—horses cast out from distant farms, traveling the coast until they reached the only place that would have them.

In the fifth spring, a human child arrived. Mixed blood, like them. Rejected, like them. The child and the horses recognized each other instantly—kindred souls who belonged nowhere else. Together at the cliff's edge, they made something new. They called it Tempest's Edge, for the place where storm met stone and the unwanted became irreplaceable.

The child grew alongside the herd, learned their lessons, taught their foals. And when that child became an elder, their own children took up the watch, and then their children after. Generation after generation, human and horse, all carrying mixed blood and the knowledge that here, at the edge, that made them stronger.

Today, descendants of both still stand—Drift, Breaker, Driftwood, Riptide and those who tend them—teaching what the first five learned on that March night when the serpent fled and they remained.

That mongrel blood carries strength the pure will never know.

That home is not where you're born, but where you're finally enough.

Love it! Very well-written! The detail and lesson is amazing!

Wow I love that @Temptest's Edge!

Thank you guys :)